这是一个技工。在假日slavis克服h fear, The whole population, in a state of awe, Rushes to the sacred doors. Having left their names and ranks. All these visitors return then to their homes They are all so deeply satisfied You might think this was their calling! Yet on other days this ornate vestibule Is beset by much more wretched sorts: Schemers and position-seekers, By a widow and an aged man. To and fro each morning without cease Couriers bustle with their papers. Some returning seekers whistle a tune While some others walk and weep. Once I saw some peasants who stopped by, Simple Russian villagers. Having crossed themselves they stood aside And they hung their flaxen heads. Then up came a doorman.-"Let us in," they said With a look of torment and of hope. He surveyed the visitors: how ugly they all looked. Sunburned hands and faces Threadbare coats upon their backs, On bent shoulders knapsacks, Crosses round the neck and bloodied feet Shod in hand-made bast (Must have come from far away, From some far-flung province). Someone yelled out to the doorman: "Send them off! Our boss doesn't care for ragged mobs!" And the door was shut. In time They untied their bags But the doorman spurned their meager offerings And they walked off through the burning sun, Saying: God will be the judge! With their arms thrown wide in consternation, I observed them 'til they disappeared, And they never donned their caps. While the owner of this lavish palace Was still nestled in deep sleep's embrace . . . You who think so highly of a life Full of thrilling, shameless flattery, Gluttony, philandering and play, Wake now! There's a greater pleasure: Call them back. For you are their salvation! But the sated are to goodness deaf. Heavenly thunder doesn't frighten you, Earthly thunders you hold in your hands That is why these unknown men must carry Grief disconsolate within their hearts. But what does this desperate sorrow mean to you? What do you care for these desperate folk? A life racing by in endless holidays Keeps you from awakening. And why care? For you the people's good Is an idle game for scribblers; You will live a glorious life without it And you'll die a glorious death! Your declining days will pass Peacefully like some Arcadian idyll: Under Sicily's charming skies, In the fragrant shade of trees, Contemplating crimson suns As they sink into the azure sea Casting shining rays of gold,- Lulled by the soft melody Of Tyrrhenean waves-just like a child You will slumber, satisfied in every need By your dear and loving family (Who await your death impatiently); Your remains they'll transport back to us To reward them with a funeral feast. Like a hero you'll be lowered to the grave, By your homeland silently cursed, Glorified by boisterous praise! . . . Still, why bother such a personage With the pains of trivial folk? Rage at them instead-a great idea! It's less dangerous. . . and more amusing, Find ourselves some kind of solace . . . What a peasant bears is no big deal: It's what fate that guides us Has decreed . . . And anyway, he's used to it! In some lowly inn outside the city gates, These poor men will drink their final rubles down And then head for home, begging all the way, Moaning humbly . . . O my homeland! Tell me now of some abode- I have surely never seen it- Where your sower and your guardian, The meek Russian peasant, does not moan? In the fields he moans, and on the roads, In the prisons and stockades he moans, And in ore mines, wearing iron chains; Moans burst out from barns and stacks of hay, And from carts where he sleeps in the steppe; In his own poor hut he moans, Warmed by nothing on God's earth; In each godforsaken town he moans, In the vestibules of courts and palaces as well. Go out to the Volga: hear whose moan Rises over Russia's greatest river? In our land, this moan is called a song- It's the boatmen straining in their traces! . . Volga! Volga! In the spring your torrents Cannot flood the fields as much As our people's awful pain Floods our land- Where you are there's moaning-O, my people! What can all this endless moaning mean? Will you ever waken, filled with strength, Or, obeying fate's command, Have you done all that you can, Fashioning a song so like a moan, While your soul remains forever mired in sleep?..